


To Die Upon the Hand

by monimala



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gap Filler, Gen, Jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the bridge between 3x11, “Going Home”, and 3x12, “New York City Serenade”, written before whatever unfolds in canon airs. <i>He's not given up; he'll go back again and again if he has to.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Die Upon the Hand

“I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell 

To die upon the hand I love so well.”

-Helena, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_

 

The motor vehicles— _cars_ , the prince said to him, endlessly patient for all their collective nerves—are beasts. The underground transit is completely baffling. The people are mindless automatons, constantly going and going and going but arriving nowhere. In short, this place called New York is just as cold and terrifying as he remembered. But that sojourn, much like this one, had a goal. A rainbow at the end of the storm. Emma.

He would cross a thousand hells for Emma Swan.

They knew that, of course, when they sent him here.

_"Oh, send the pirate. He's expendable."_

_"Hook will do anything for her."_

_"He's the only one we know with any world-jumping experience."_

_"The only one we can FIND..."_

It was only her father who gave him any sort of credit, who pressed the blue bottle into his palm and said, "If the kiss doesn't do it, there's always this," like there was actually a slim shot that Emma might actually be his True Love. Prince bloody Charming, his staunchest defender. Were it not for Neverland, he would've never seen that coming.

Nor this. New York. So full of old wounds. Shut doors. Lost chances.   

He wanders for hours after Emma throws him out, still tasting her lips and her surprise and her...enthusiastic response. The ache in his groin will heal. The ache in his heart is another matter entirely. But he's not given up; he'll go back again and again if he has to. Until he makes her see that reason and fantasy are one and the same. That she has a home and a family and...love. More love than he knows what to do with. Than he ever thought capable of feeling, much less sharing.

He'd love her back to herself if he could. More than kisses. Full flesh to flesh. The kind of union he's only imagined while held safe in the dark belly of the Jolly Roger. She would laugh. That much he knows. There would be such wicked joy in it…taking her, finding her secret places, plundering her good and hard. “Shiver my timbers,” he can imagine her chuckling, her voice as wry as it is breathless with want. “Make me walk your plank.” And he wouldn’t have to make her do _anything_ , really. Because their bodies would just know.

But it's not the oldest magic in the universe that Emma needs today. Nay, it's something else entirely. It’s trust. In him. In her father and mother. In her fate.

He returns to her apartments after sunset, feeling rather like a thief skulking in the night. No, like an imposter. Stripped of his leather, washed of his kohl. Looking like another man. A mortal man in a gray pullover and denim. Save for his hand, of course. There’s nothing he can do about that. No concession to normalcy he can make. The black glove, the wrist attachment…it’s in stark contrast to the pale flesh of his working fingers. But still a sight better than a gleaming hook.

This time, when he knocks on her door, it’s with the guileless honor of a Navy man…a man he hasn’t been in centuries. And he greets the beautiful suspicion on her face and the sharp, short, “What do _you_ want?” with a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry about this morning.” He shifts from foot to foot; brushing at his hair with what he hopes is just enough nervous chagrin. “An old friend of yours put me up to it. Was rather terrible as pranks go. I know.”

His Emma’s always been able to spot a lie—or so she claims—and she blocks the doorway with her body, still defensive as she asks, “What old friend?”

He _knew_ she would ask. And this, he reckons, has just as much likelihood of gaining him a knee in the bollocks as True Love’s Kiss. “Neal. Neal Cassidy.”

A gasp slips from between her disapproving lips. Her face pales. Snow white. Seconds tick by as the emotions war on her face. And he braces for another assault.

But instead she steps back. Swings the door open. And sets her jaw with the gorgeous stubbornness he’s adored from day one. “Come in.”

He worked out the story—at least the bare bones—walking endless circles round one of the tiny parks that dot the city. Just enough details to sound plausible. Just enough bashful lies to be charming. But as he crosses into her home, the words dry up, unspoken, and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“So, talk,” she says, impatient. And all he can do is gaze at her, calf-eyed and silent. He’s going to lose her if he doesn’t start spinning, but he can’t help but allow himself just a few moments to take her in. It’s been a _year_ , and he doesn’t know if she’s grown more beautiful or if it’s just his memory that’s paled. She’s… _softer_ somehow. The worry lines around her eyes and mouth have eased. The suspicion in her gaze, wholly warranted in this case, feels fleeting. And her lips are painted a gentle shade of pink. Her clothes, too, speak of warmth and comfort, of care.  Clinging to her not out of utility but out of deliberate choices of what flatters her shape and her coloring.

Of course, she would look lovely in anything. Or wearing nothing but sky and ocean.

He clears his throat, rubbing his chest with the heel of his gloved prosthetic, fully aware that she’s now staring at him like he’s stark-raving mad. “I’m Killian,” he says, softly, backing up out of knee range. “Killian Jones. I’ve known Neal since he was a boy.” A truth. “He’s told me a lot about you.” A lie. Baelfire’s hardly spoken of her to him at all. Their war councils over the fire were fraught with enmity, and Bae was the biggest opposition to his trip to her world.

“And he sent you here? After all this time?” Again her suspicion, her lack of patience. All things Bae deserved and then some. She glances around her home, and he realizes that Henry must not be about. Else she wouldn’t have risked letting a stranger in the door. He’s proud of her and saddened all at once. Because he’d no sooner hurt her son than he’d hurt her. Not willingly, at least.

“After a fashion.” He waits almost too long to answer. She clearly thinks he’s daft. She might very well be right. “He knows I’m here, but he didn’t send me. Not really.”

She steps into assault range with that admission, and Killian realizes he’s made a grievous tactical error. He hadn’t thought far enough beyond getting to her, should’ve scripted a full story, not just paltry lines. And now he’s cocked it up, made her think he’s some sort of jailhouse confidante of Neal’s come to collect what’s owed. Her silver, her jewels, her virtue.

“I’m sorry. It’s not what you think.” The words fall from his mouth in an inelegant tumble, nothing like the pirate who confidently wooed her with perfectly filthy turns of phrase. “Neal and I, we come from the same place. Came of age together, I guess you could say. And our paths crossed again some months ago. He…he’s worried for you.” That, at least, is no falsehood. “I was coming to New York, so I said I would drop in.”

She crosses her arms over her bosom. He tries not to gawp. “With some bullshit story about my parents?"

“It…it was a lark. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” He shrugs, gives her what he hopes is his most winsome smile, and his fingers curl round the bottle hidden in his coat pocket.

“Hmm.” Emma doesn’t move to cripple his manhood again, which is a distinct plus. Instead, she goes to the narrow countertop of her kitchen area, placing her palms flat on the surface. As if to hold her steady. “I’ve always had a pretty good internal lie detector, you know. And it’s telling me that you are completely full of shit. Do you even _know_ how to tell the truth?”

Her palm’s not flat, he realizes then. It’s placed atop the handle of a large chopping knife.

The truth.

Does he know how to tell the truth?

She can’t know how desperately he wants to.

_Emma, I love you. Emma, I crossed worlds for you. I can’t breathe for wanting you, and if I don’t bring you back to Snow bloody White she’ll make certain I never breathe again. Emma, we need you to save us all._

Emma, Emma, Emma.

Her name was his prayer in the Enchanted Forest. Is that truth enough for her? For him? For both of them together?

“This was a mistake. I’ll leave you in peace.” He turns. He takes two steps. Three. His hollow, traitorous, beggar’s hand knocks uselessly against the door as he scrabbles for the knob.

“Killian.” There is a clatter. Metal striking wood. The blade falling from her grip, or perhaps finding a greater purpose in it. “Why are you really here?”

He says the only thing he can. With his forehead against the smooth surface of the door. His body bent in supplication, in regret. Braced for a blow that may come swiftly or not at all. “You. I’m here for you.”

Seconds tick by like months. Like the time he spent apart from her.

Her fingers tangling in the ends of his hair are harsh, giving no quarter.

The knife against his throat presses just enough to draw a shuddering gasp from his lungs.

But the three words that follow are beautiful.

“Tell me more.”

              

           

-end-

 

March 7, 2014


End file.
